A Legend Nonetheless
by Ajali
Summary: Cries of the dead, he had once thought that sound was. Once was a very long time ago. It had been many years since he’d learned the dead did not sound like that. Rating will increase. First fic.


**Disclaimer; They're mine. All mine. Nods yup. O.K, fine, I'm a terrible liar. You know the drill. If you recognise them from the show, they're not mine. If you don't, stands to reason they are.**

**Sooo,I have finally taken the plunge. This is my first ever fanfiction. It is my offering to you. Please tear it apart.**

**Much thanks to Beluga (known here as Zippdipp) for an incredible and slightly intimidating beta'ing job! Thankyou for your time and diligence! Huggles**

**Does it count as a crossover if I haven't finished writing the story it's crossed over with?**

* * *

Chapter One; Existing 

Outside, a gale was crooning at the eves of the motel, vocal but with no real power. The young man sat at the wireless laptop tilted his head at one particularly tuneful gust, an echo of a distant memory curving full lips into a lopsided salute to a smile. Cries of the dead, he had once thought that sound was. Once was a very long time ago. It had been many years since he'd learned the dead did not sound like that.

A dog-eared wad of paper lay beside his right hand, brief notes scrawled across it in dark biro. It contained all the relevant information he had discovered; when, the location, how often, details of the victims. He swiftly scanned his handwriting, ensuring it was committed to the part of him reserved for tackling new jobs. The laptop's time read nearly an hour past midnight, and his eyes protested his being awake at this time, a dry itchiness that would no longer be ignored. Suddenly tired, he resolved to get some sleep.

Closing the laptop, he staggered to his feet, legs protesting the move as he straightened, muscles set long ago from sitting. Calloused knuckles dug into his ribs on either side of his spine, stretching weary muscles. Aches he had not realised existed eased as his joints cracked.

A faint moan sounded, muffled and barely audible, and hazel eyes flicked towards the shape huddled on the bed furthest from the door. His brother lay on top of the covers, one arm forming a crooked crescent around his face, the other protecting his chest, long legs drawn to his abdomen. But despite his defensive position, the young man had been so exhausted he did not even stir when the soft weight of a blanket had descended on him earlier.

He had not intended to fall asleep, but long days and longer nights with sleep snatched in staccato bursts during conversation lulls in the car had conspired against him, and despite his unwillingness, primitive need had slid his eyelids shut and stolen his consciousness.

Dean did not have the heart to wake him, and merely kept his activity to minimum decibels, existing for the time somewhere internal. The hotel room was a quiet warmth that lay on the periphery of his consciousness, his mind applied to the sometimes arduous task of sifting through frantic reports, gleeful articles of suspicious deaths, irregular findings. Skill born of practice and a touch of something more drew tentative lines between fact and fiction, although their occupation crossed those boundaries so many times as to be almost comical. His longest sojourn from his search and subsequent research of a new hunt was to draw a blanket up around the shoulders of his sibling as the temperature dropped.

He retrieved his notepad and a beaten leather-bound book, scanning the swift notes and turning the pages of his father's journal with something akin to reverence. Sleep still beckoned with increasing persistency, but as his own need grew, his brother gasped through his slumber, growing more restless.

These were new hunting grounds. Newspaper reports pricked at his decades-tuned instinct, and he knew that this area was not mentioned in the journal for anything relating to the articles.

Another gasp from Sam.

Was this something that had migrated from outside? Perhaps something that had a very long lifespan, akin to the Wendigo with lengthy hibernation patterns? He had explored sites with local lore for the area in question. He had explored sites with local lore for the area in question, but there was nothing to suggest what creature they could be dealing with. No history behind this one. All he could find were reports of a haunted mansion, lights flickering at the windows at night, terrible screaming, exploring kids feeling hands push them, but something told him that was superstition and local youngsters playing pranks, rather than an actual haunting. And a phantom Highwayman, whose method of… "Je…" The strangled cry sputtered and died on his lips as Sam clawed to full awareness, but Dean knew what that word was. Would have known what it was even if Sam's cry had been silent. It usually was. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the faces of the dead. For months now, something inside of Sam had been screaming the one name, and it was not confined to his nightmares. 

That unfinished syllable twisted something inside of him, that part of him that felt his brother's emotions as his own, and he had to struggle to school his features when Sam's sleep-fogged gaze turned to him. Briefly their eyes met, twin sets of hazel orbs reflecting pain and knowledge and understanding, before both looked away, unnerved by the intimacy of that gaze.

Sam's loss and pain were private, a part of his life that Dean had never witnessed nor experienced for himself, but their close living quarters and their sibling comprehension of each other did not allow for him to keep all his strife to himself, the walls he erected around his shattered self could not contain his grief and would not exclude his brother, and there was no need for words.

With a sharp exhale the young man lay down again, back of his wrist wearily scrubbing at his eyes.

Dean sighed, a soft breath laced with frustration and empathy. His brothers' arm remained flung across his eyes, almost as if to ward off a blow. Or to hide; a futile gesture. Sam's pain and fear originated from someplace fundamental within. There was nothing physical that could confront Sam's self-induced haunting. This was something Sam had to face alone.

The slapping sound of paper on paper and a cloth-muffled thud and the notebook Dean had flicked at Sam landed with precision on his chest. It barely elicited a flicker of reaction, but Dean knew he had his attention.

"You're not going to sleep any more tonight. Check that through, see if you can find anything else." The gentleness of his tone did not disguise the authority in his voice; rather, it almost served as an amplifier.

Sam's arm slid from his brow to rest against the pillow behind his head, the long fingers of his other hand tracing the metal spine of the pad. Not making any effort to read it yet, just touching it gently, something real to hold on to, something tangible. He shuddered suddenly and clutched at the paper, creasing it under his fist before he relaxed. Dean had thrown him a lifeline, something to remove his focus from that roiling mess within, something tangible and productive to concentrate on instead of the faces he placed on his wounds, and he took it gladly. The mood did not lighten, but something eased the tension a little. A half-smile made a struggle for existence upon his lips. Something?

Someone. Dean.

A glance at his brother showed Dean pretending not to notice as the older man settled under the covers.

"Don't make too much noise Sammy. See ya where morning's supposed to be."

"It's Sam," was his brother's only response as the younger man sat up, blanket draped about him still, turning the papers in preparation for studying.

A genuine smile flitted across Dean's face at the old joke, a joke that was never remotely funny and by now was so used and aged it was fraying at the seams, but the smile was for the lifetime of affectionate teasing it represented, and Sam could not help but respond in kind, a understated gesture, half-hearted and frail, but existing nonetheless, a hint of white teeth, flash of the dimples he had never lost, and Dean closed his eyes, his brother's grasp on the proffered lifeline secure for the moment.

* * *

_Hunted. Always hunted. Never ends they always want us dead they hunted us down then they do it now all the same with cruel eyes what manner of sport is this they say it's changed it hasn't changed they lied to us it will never change and they hunt us still. But I am stronger than them. I was back then I will always be and now we shall break them once again._


End file.
